


Revolver

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Lost Boys (1987 2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Fic, Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-11
Updated: 2002-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammy gets Michael a present, and then they play with the new toy. Hazy future-fic, set sometime long after the film (not sure when).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolver

"Five hundred bucks, man? That's shit! Last time it was two-fifty!"

"Hey, inflation. You don't like it, take it up with the Prez."

"Shit. That's shit! Just...shit. Fine, what can you give me for two-fifty?"

Ron snorted disdainfully, shaking his head and putting the gun back under his belt at the small of his back. "You wouldn't want it. Come back tomorrow, and I'll do you a deal."

"Hey there!" An unfamiliar, chirpy, fucking Happy voice broke through the city night like a gunshot in a hospital.

"Whathefuck!" Ron spun on his heel, expecting to see a competitor, or perhaps Williams back with his guys. Instead, he saw what looked like a Frat boy who'd wandered too far from his House late at night. The kid's hair was strangely arranged, held together by some unknown force to spike at odd angles around his face. His clothes were clean and nice-looking, but not expensive. Community college, perhaps. There was one a few blocks over, a night tech school. Probably no more than a twenty in his pocket, and no watch Ron could see.

The young man walked further into the half-light of the empty lot, smiling like he was charming a young girl out of her panties rather than approaching a man trying to do a little business. His face was rounded and smooth, like someone who never knew a day of poverty or starvation in his life. Ron heard scuffling on the pavement behind him that was no doubt his customer running off, which pissed him off to no end. "Man, you better have a damn good reason for bugging me right now, coz I'm not in a chatty mood."

"I'm in the market for a gun," the kid said, his voice rather high, though steady and unafraid. He continued walking, his steps weaving around a straight line. Not drunk; more like he was taking his time, fucking strolling through the litter and streetmuck while enjoying the beauty of his surroundings. All blank wall, boarded-up building, trash, and fence. "Can I have yours?" he asked sweetly, his eyes skimming all around Ron without actually looking at him.

Probably high on one of the newest chems to come out of the basement labs. High school kid, then, coming to the slums to rebel against daddy. No money at all. A waste of Ron's time. "Go home, kid, or you might stub your toe."

The boy giggled at that. A real, hand-over-mouth giggle. Definitely chem'd out of his mind. He stopped an arm's length away from Ron, then let his head fall back to howl with high, musical laughter. Ron could see two neat little marks on his neck, orange-brown in the chemical light like infected needle marks. "You're the third guy tonight who won't give me a gun. Won't someone give me a gun in this damn city?" he yelled to the sky before dropping his chin to his chest, glaring at Ron through his lashes. His eyes flashed yellow in the fence-striped light of the far-off streetlamp.

"Kid, I don't know what you're on, but you better get the fuck out of here." Ron had lived all his life on these streets, as far back as he cared to remember. He had instincts that had kept him alive this long, and right now they were telling him that the boy was dangerous. He reached inside the back of his pants, feeling the heavy butt of the gun he was trying sell. It was an old piece, with only 7 in the clip, but he was willing to bet the ChemHead had nothing.

"I'm not leaving until I get a gun." Those glittering eyes were trained dead-on with Ron's hand behind his back. He could feel the amber gaze burn through him straight to the cool metal in his grasp. The kid looked through him as though he wasn't even there.

"What do you need a gun for?" Ron asked, distracting the kid while slowly backing up. There was a space in the boards somewhere along the wall big enough to dive through, should it come to that. Some chemfreaks take a full clip in them before they go down, and while they are up, they are dangerous.

"Well...it's for my brother," he said, quite seriously. His eyes flashed again as he moved, keeping the same arms-length distance between them no matter how fast Ron back-peddled. "It's his birthday. He wants to rob a bank or something. Or maybe he just wants to see me suck bullets. I can't quite remember."

Ron could almost feel the solid presence of the wall behind him, the stale scent of the squat coming through the fallen boards. "If you ask me, that's a fucked up brother you have there."

"Mmmmm..." the boy hummed out, his feet a little more unsteady on the ground. One of the boy's hands absently rubbed at his chest. He sniffed, then made another noise in his chest, a deeper hum that made the hairs on the back of Ron's neck stand up.

He knew the door was right here, somewhere down the wall. Ron brought his other hand behind his back to feel for it, not willing to look back to let the kid know what he was doing. He wouldn't let go of the gun, either, but something inside him knew that it might not be enough unless he could get some space between him and the ChemHead.

"I don't think he's fucked up," the boy answered finally, tilting his head to the side. His face was painted in dark shadows, making it look misshapen and grotesque. His lips were up in a smile that was almost feral. "And I don't like you saying that about my brother. He takes care of me."

Run! Run like hell! his inner voice was screaming. Taking his eyes off the boy, Ron finally turned and sprinted for what he was sure was the opening to the building. He didn't hear the scuffling of feet behind him--the darker shadows of the squat were beckoning for him to leap for it.

Suddenly, the kid was in front of him, blocking the way. His eyes were brilliant flame, flashing red-yellow-green like a cat in headlights. His face was still grotesquely twisted even though the light was directly in his face, his forehead furrowed in unnatural ridges, the angles of his face built up until they were monstrous. His lips pulled back almost impossibly far to show off teeth that better belonged on a trashyard dog. No chems would have made him look like that.

Disconnectedly, Ron found his finger on the trigger of the gun, his arm swinging around from behind his back, almost discharging it before pulling it out of his pants. The shot went wide of them both, and hit the broken pavement by the boy's feet. The kid made a noise in his throat that sounded too much like a pissed-off German Shepard.

"Oh, shit!" Ron brought up the gun to the level of the kid's heart, hoping that it would stop him long enough to get away. Nails longer than any whore's buried into his wrist as fingers crunched the bones together. Everything went numb below his wrist; the rest of it screamed with pain that drowned out his own frantic yelling. The gun dropped from his ruined grasp, but the boy caught it easily with one hand and pocketed the weapon without once turning his gaze from Ron's eyes.

With his good arm, Ron aimed a punch at the twisted face before him, but that wrist was caught and crushed as well. In a deadly clap, both of Ron's arms were ground together between two impossibly strong hands, bones like sandpaper grit tearing his flesh apart from the inside. Ron lost the air to scream, all of it choked in his throat as he looked into the impassive, feral face of his attacker, the boy avidly watching his agony.

Finally, his hands were dropped, but they flopped uselessly at the end of his arms, unable to fight any longer. Instead, the monster-child's hands gripped Ron's shoulders, nails like claws digging into muscle as he was dragged forward against the boy's chest. All he could see where those glowing yellow eyes, like twin moons, and then they were eclipsed by darkness.

Pain flared at his neck, all the way down to his chest. It wrapped around his heart, pulling at it as though the agony meant to tear the organ out through his veins. Around him raised a sound that he'd only heard once before. Trisha's puppies, tiny things suckling at her tits, making tiny noises that were half-drowned in liquid. Happy noises...

Ron couldn't think any more, just feel that pain, hear that noise. Things grew hazy, then dark, then nothing.

***

"Happy birthday, Michael," Sammy said as he entered the room. He held both his hands behind his back, looking coyly at his older brother who lounged on the no-tell bed. He crinkled the paper under his fingers, making interesting noises where Michael couldn't see.

"Aw, Sammy, you didn't have to," Michael said, his voice laced with amusement.

Sammy waggled his eyebrows, then twitched his hips. Somewhere outside, a car blasted cloyingly sweet pop tunes out its window. Sammy's hips took up the rhythm, dancing smoothly as he slowly stepped his way across the stained carpet. He kept his hands behind his back, letting the package peek out at random.

"Gimme," Michael said, his eyes on Sammy's dancing hips. He sat up, sliding around to put his feet on the floor facing Sammy. The younger boy stepped right up to his brother's outstretched arms, but avoided his attempts at grabbing him.

"Happy Birthday, to you," he sang, altering the beat to match the bubble-gum tune filtering through the thrice-blanketed window. "Happy-happy birthday to you." He added in a few thrusts of his hips. "Happy birthday dear Mikey..."

Michael lunged forward on one of Sammy's hip-thrusts, thumbs hooking into beltloops as hands firmly wrapped around slender, writhing hips. He yanked Sammy forward until his legs were trapped between Michael's knees, his own legs catching the back of Sammy's calves to hold him prisoner. Sammy continued his movements, rubbing against Michael's chest.

"Happy birthday to you..." He groaned out the last syllable as Michael buried his face in Sammy's bare stomach, rubbing his lips over the top of his jeans. Sammy hissed when teeth replaced lips, nipping at his ribs, scoring shallow marks over the hard bumps of bone.

The car moved on with a screech of tires.

Fingers tugged at Michael's hair, making the older man growl in his throat. "Your present," Sam whispered, making the paper crinkle loudly again.

Michael smiled against the skin in his mouth. With a hop, he stood, using his greater strength to hold onto Sam's hips and lift him into the air. The boy squealed with giggles, his hands and the present fluttering around his brother's shoulders. Michael spun Sam through the air, flipping the younger man around and dropping him on the bed with a purr. Sam bounced a couple times on the squeaky mattress, still giggling. His feet stretched to the floor as he sprawled backwards, his hips pushed up by the edge of the mattress.

Watching the smooth writhing of Sam's narrow hips, Michael's face changed, his teeth tingling as they lengthened into place, his eyes turning feral yellow. Sammy's eyes returned the glow as he stared up at his brother. Michael moved as to dive into his body, but Sammy held the present out in front of him like a shield, blocking his move. "Present first," he chided, his giggles finally fading.

Michael snatched it out of his hand with more violence than was necessary. Sammy simply laughed, then wriggled his way up the bed, his hands automatically working down the buttons on his fly as he squirmed out of the fabric. Eyes flicking between his stripping brother and the present, Michael quickly shredded the old, stained newspaper that was wrapped around something very heavy in his hands. He tossed the remains of the makeshift wrapping paper over his shoulder and held up his present to the single light bulb.

"A gun," he announced a little confused, his fingers curling comfortably around the grip as though they belonged there. "Just what I always wanted."

Sam bounced excitedly on the bed, sitting up to toss his jeans to the ground as he said in a rush of words, "The guy tried to shoot me, but I was too fast. He was so scared. He tasted really good. You should have been there Mikey, he screamed when I crushed his hand--"

"Sammy." Michael's voice was soft, but Sammy instantly quieted. His face was still filled with that manic smile of his, but he held his tongue between his teeth, not saying a word. Michael chambered a round, the click of the slide obscenely loud in the early-morning silence. Resting his index finger along the side of the trigger, he pointed it at Sammy. Right between the eyes.

"What did I say about killing in the city?"

Sammy's smile fell, and his lower lip jutted out dramatically. "Don't kill in the city."

"Unless..." Michael's finger crooked, covering the trigger.

"Unless you take care of the bodies."

Michael lifted a knee on the bed, crawling forward until he was between Sammy's sprawled legs, the gun only an inch from younger man's face. "Did you take care of the body, Sammy?"

"I'm not a child, Michael," he answered petulantly, leaning back against his arms braced behind him. Michael growled, his finger twitching as he moved the gun closer, brushing Sam's nose. Sammy took his eyes off his brother's face to look at the gun. It was dark, and it was heavy, but it was also pretty. A few drops of blood clung to its surface in a fine spray. Sammy stuck out his tongue, curling it up under the muzzle of the gun to taste the blood and metal. Then he looked back up at Michael over the barrel. "Yes, Michael," he answered obediently, sighing at having to explain what should have been self-explanatory. "I burned him. They'll never know how he died." Sammy flicked his tongue over the hole, tasting fire-crackers and oil.

"Very good, Sammy," Michael sighed. Sammy licked the gun again, lingering this time to swirl his tongue around the barrel, making it shiny with his spit. "Very good..." Michael moved closer, his legs brushing the inside of Sam's thighs, and he held the gun with a looser wrist, angling it down towards his brother's mouth.

Sammy took advantage of the angle to take the barrel completely into his mouth. He wrapped his lips tightly around the metal, holding his jaw open enough to keep his teeth from getting chipped as he moved. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked the flavour of gunpowder into his lungs. Sam backed off the barrel until it almost fell out of his mouth, the gun sight catching on the inside of his lip. When he came back down, he could feel Michael's trigger finger rub against his lip. Sammy swallowed around the muzzle, his tongue moving under the metal in little fluttering waves. He looked up to see the intense concentration on his brother's face, the shimmering yellow gaze trained on where metal met mouth, where saliva drooled down the trigger guard, where sweet red lips circled cold dark gun.

Michael began moving the gun, fucking Sam's mouth with the weapon. His hips moved in time with the thrusting of the metal; Sam could feel the movement against his thighs as he pressed his legs around his brother's body, anchoring them together. Sammy had his hands free while his brother worked his mouth, so he opened Michael's fly in a scramble of button and zipper and took out his brother's cock, holding it in his hands with expert ease. He caressed the solid flesh with sure touches, squeezing and rubbing while using his best oral techniques on the gun metal.

The gun trembled in his mouth when Michael came, sticky warmth spreading over Sammy's hands. Michael pushed the gun forward into his mouth, knocking the trigger guard into his teeth painfully and held it there as he shuddered. Catching his breath, Michael slid the gun out of Sam's mouth, slowly drawing it over his lips. "Roll over," he commanded, his voice rough.

Sammy happily flipped over, bouncing onto his stomach as he arranged himself in front of Michael. He raised his hips expectantly, but the mattress moved as Michael got off the bed. Sam could hear the muted thunk of jeans falling to the floor, and he wiggled with impatience, but his brother didn't return to the bed immediately. There was a long pause of silence, of anticipation, of Michael deliberately making Sammy wait for it. Sam was about to turn around and tell Mike to hurry up, but when he started to look behind him, he felt the warm pressure of the gun against the back of his head, pushing him to look forward.

In response, Sammy writhed in the sheets, bowing his back as the metal pushed hard into his skull. He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of the ugly, cheap motel room to concentrate on the bruising presence of the gun. He closed his fists around handfuls of sheets, waiting for anything. The pressure against his head lessened, and the gun barrel, slightly cooler now, ran down Sam's spine in a light caress. It bumped over every vertebrae, stroking the skin with a gentleness that was annoying. Sammy moved, wriggled, and jerked trying to encourage a rougher touch, but Michael backed off every time he rubbed upwards against the gun. Finally Sammy settled down and allowed Michael to play, and was rewarded with the scratch of nails to counter the gentle caress of gun metal.

"Do you believe I love you?" Michael asked, the gun now playing exclusively across the top of Sammy's crack.

Sammy's hips instantly rolled, moving up into the touch, begging for more. Michael ran the gun down over his brother's exposed buttocks, the spit wiped off almost completely from the metal. He rubbed the muzzle around until Sammy got up on his knees, legs spreading wide, wantonly presenting himself. Michael passed over his sensitive anus several times, teasing, then paused with the gun barrel right on the pucker. "I asked you a question."

Sammy's mind was hazy with his desire, and he couldn't remember Michael speaking at all before this teasing touch against his anus. All he knew was that he wanted to feel his brother inside him, to feel whatever Mikey wanted to give him. "Wha?" he gasped out, unable to find coherence.

The gun suddenly pushed, hard, against him. It was undeniable, and his flesh gave way beneath, opening to allow the thick barrel inside. It was painful, the odd shape thrusting dryly against the muscle. Sammy cried out with the shock of it.

"I said, Do you believe I love you?" The barrel twisted inside, making skin stretch then jerk back into place in slow shudderings.

"I...I..." Sammy moaned, sure that he heard the trigger being pulled back. He threw back his head, unable to stop his hips thrusting into, then away from, the painful presence inside him. "I believe," he panted, moving again with shivers of desire. "I believe, I believe. Oh, I love you Michael. I love you!"

The gun pulled out roughly, tearing against flesh that pressed against it. Sammy wasn't empty for long, as Michael pressed into him, seating his erection with a few jerky thrusts. He must have used some kind of lube, because he pulled out with an ease a dry entry wouldn't have made possible, even with spit and blood. Mike pushed in again, rougher this time, rolling his hips around to press against every tear inside him, to leave nothing untouched. Sammy could feel it all the way up his spine, and he groaned, lifting his hips at an angle to make it easier.

Michael barely paused before he began slamming against Sammy's ass, bruising him inside and out. The warm gun pressed into his temple, making Sammy dizzy with the impact. Michael's other hand wrapped around Sam's erection, the full weight of his body pressing his younger brother into the mattress. His teeth were at Sammy's throat, worrying the wounds that never get a chance to heal.

Sam came quickly, unable to hold it after so much play. Michael sped up, pushing so hard it hurt, his hand clenching spasmicly around Sammy's flagging erection. He whined in his throat, the high sound tingling against the wounds on Sam's neck as teeth tore them open. Sammy could hear the trigger moving, mechanical bits going into action, even as he felt jets of semen rush inside him.

The sound of the gun was like a firecracker going off inside his ear.

The air was filled with the smell of sex, gunpowder and burnt hair.

Michael rolled off Sammy with a groan, his arms flinging out as he fell into the mattress, pulling Sammy's body with him. The gun dropped to the ground with a clunk, forgotten for now. Sammy curled up on Michael's chest, one hand going to his head as the other wrapped around Mike's neck.

"You shot my hair," he said, sounding indignant. "It won't sit right now." He patted down the odd spikes, covering where the hair was burnt.

"It'll grow back," Michael assured him, hugging him close to his chest. "You'll never notice."

"Do you like your present?"

"I always like your presents, don't I, Sammy. What made you get me a gun?"

"I thought you said you wanted one."

"When I was 10, I wanted a b.b. gun. To protect Mom."

"That sounds right." Sammy yawned, feeling the sleepiness of the dawn. "Are you sorry you shot me? You made Edgar apologize when he shot me."

"I didn't shoot you. I shot at you. I would never hurt you, bro."

"I know." Sammy could feel the bruise on his face where the barrel has pressed deep. It would be healed by the time he woke up. He could remember visiting Edgar and Alan that last time. They weren't happy to see him. It was Michael's birthday then, too. The Frogs were his presents. He couldn't remember seeing Michael open them, but they were all over the floor when he woke up. His head had hurt, but Michael had seemed happy.

"Happy Birthday, Michael," Sammy said, pressing a little kiss to Michael's chest.

Michael threaded his fingers in Sammy's hair, rubbing the burn on his scalp, outlining the scar over the back of his skull.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "The Drowners" by Suede. Thanks to Layna and Sleeps With Coyotes for the beta and encouragement.


End file.
